


a gentle sound

by nilchance



Series: ain't this the life [18]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Soul Touching, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), eventual spicykustard, kustard - Freeform, offscreen fellcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 22:56:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17374778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: Edge touches Sans's soul. Red helps.





	a gentle sound

**Author's Note:**

> detailed content warnings in the end notes

Tomorrow comes fast. One second Sans is in Edge's office. Then it seems like he blinks and he's standing in front of Edge and Red's house, kept company by a jittering restlessness that he refuses to call nerves.

Red opens on the third knock, slouched against the doorframe. His eyes light up when he sees that Sans is still wearing his jacket (because like hell is Sans leaving the house without one). Red tsks. "Actually using a door, Sansy? The indignity."

"I figured you might get cranky if I threw a brick through your window," Sans says. "You gonna let me in?"

Red snags a fistful of jacket and pulls him inside. As soon as the door has been kicked closed and the whole neighborhood can't see, Red reels him in even closer. Instead of going for a kiss, Red murmurs against his throat, "Looks good on you."

"Congrats, you’ve reached full narcissism," Sans says, leaning his head to the side to give Red a better angle.

"Nah. Not until I fuck you in it." He can hear the grin in Red's voice. "You wanna?"

Tempting. Unfortunately, he's here for another reason.

"Focus, buddy," Sans says. Red nuzzles against his spine and his voice catches a little. "We're supposed to be smoking up like responsible people."

"Yeah, yeah." Grudgingly, Red lets him go. He smooths down the front of the jacket, his hands lingering. "Rain check?"

"How many kinds of check do you want?" Sans asks. "Blank checks, rain checks... you gonna ask for a traveler's check next? A baggage check? A checkup? Checkers?"

Red goes to the couch and sits, grinning up at Sans. "How else am I supposed to get a checkmate?"

"Nice. I admire your craft." Sans settles onto the couch beside him. When Red keeps studying him, bright-eyed, he does the marginally smart thing and slides out of the jacket. He knows how well either of them resist temptation. Dropping it to the floor beside the couch, he says, "Sure. What the hell. I'll indulge your weird kinks some other time."

"Yeah, right. That's the real hardcore shit." Red reaches into his inventory, miming pulling something out of his pelvis because that’s always hilarious, and holds out his hand. The pipe rests in it, already packed. "Here. All ready to go. I got bored waiting around for you."

Sans takes the pipe, then Red's unnecessarily edgy lighter. "Hey, tell me all the cool kids are doing it. Live the cliche."

"I would but I don't got a trenchcoat," Red says, leaning back into the couch to watch Sans light up. Apparently that's just a thing they do in Red and Edge's universe, staring intently like a cat about to pounce as he puts things in his mouth.

Wait. That came out wrong.

Sans takes the first drag and almost coughs it back out. It's not the stuff Red usually smokes. It's more intense, almost astringent. He manages not to embarrass himself but his eyes are watering a little. "Holy fuck, that's strong."

"Yeah, I got it special for you from a guy with a medical marijuana card. Some kinda blend from a dispensary," Red says. "It's supposed to be good for pain."

"Must be why it smells awful. The stink of quasi-legality."

Sans tries to hand the pipe over. Red gently pushes it back at him and shakes his head. "This is all you, babe."

"You're just gonna sit here and watch me smoke?" When Red nods, Sans asks warily, "Why?"

“If I’m gonna stick around for this, then I oughta stay sharp,” Red says. “Somebody’s gotta keep an eye on you two chucklefucks.”

The second, deeper drag goes down easier than the first. Sans isn’t feeling it yet, just the oily smoke leaking from his eye sockets, but he thinks he will be soon.

“Things would be pretty fucked if you’re the voice of reason,” Sans says.

“He ain’t objective when it comes to you,” Red says.

Sans tenses. He remembers how the last conversation along this vein went. “Is this gonna end with angry tentacle fucking?”

Red snorts. “Nah. Nobody’s getting shoved against any walls or tentacle fucked today.”

“Shame,” Sans says before his brain catches up with his mouth. Red grins, delighted. Sans pulls the pipe away to glare at it. “Wow, fuck this blend.”

“Really? I’m kinda digging it.” Sans transfers his glare to Red, who doesn’t seem appropriately impressed. “Anyway, you don’t got any more sense about him than he does about you. And soul touching can be kinda, heh, intense.”

“Whereas you’re not biased at all,” Sans says. “No ulterior motives here.”

“I’m fucking you both,” Red says. “Yeah, maybe I’m a teeny bit goddamn invested at this point in you getting along. I’m not gonna be high or distracted or in subspace--”

“That isn’t happening again,” Sans says.

He did research. Not good research, but research. Sure, he could’ve asked Papyrus, who dove into learning about kink with as much energy as he does everything and has made experienced friends, including Edge, to get firsthand information from. But Sans is drawing the line re: this whole honesty thing at earnest conversations about BDSM with his little brother. Asking to borrow that advanced relationship manual would’ve set off one of those conversations too, so that was a nonstarter. He sure wasn’t asking Edge or, worse, Red.

So he’d looked it up on the undernet and the Internet both. What he found was anecdotal evidence, nothing quantitative, but it confirmed that Edge was right. He had gone into subspace. He couldn’t find the information that matters: how to keep it from happening again.

He’s not dying this time. He’ll try harder to keep it together. Edge said he’ll be gentler. If both of them are being careful, it’ll be fine.

Probably.

Fuck, he has no idea what he’s doing.

Red gives him a look that says he’s an idiot who says idiot things for idiot reasons. “While you two are busy, I’ll keep my eye on the ball. Relax.”

“I’m always relaxed,” Sans says.

That gets an eyeroll, which he probably deserves. Red says, “Y’know, it’ll help if you actually smoke that instead of hoping for a contact high. I got a ton but that’s no reason to waste it.”

Oh. Right. Sans raises the pipe to his mouth and concentrates on smoking for a while. The taste doesn’t exactly get better over time but it starts to matter less. Smoke rises to pool at the ceiling, slowly dragged by air currents towards a window that’s cracked open. Surprisingly, Red doesn’t have anything to say. He just sits there with his chin propped on his fist, watching Sans like an (experiment) interesting car accident. It’s almost peaceful, which isn’t a word he thought he’d ever associate with Red. It’s nice. He’s tired of talking.

Eventually, the pipe is just full of ash. Nothing left. Sans taps the pipe to watch the ash crumble in on itself, perversely reminded of dust falling. There’s a gentle dislocation between his mind and his body, like if he moved his thoughts would leave a vapor trail behind.

Red takes the pipe from his fingers. “You wanna keep going?”

Sans stretches, testing whether his soul will start screaming in protest. The pain is definitely better. He almost feels like a real boy. “I think that’ll do it.”

The look Red gives him is skeptical, which is rude. Yeah, maybe what he considers a normal amount of pain is fucked up and maybe he’s been lying about being in pain for years and maybe he’s a little bit of a control freak but… okay, that look is totally justified, but it’s still annoying. Red says, “Try to touch your soul.”

“Right in front of you?"

"I meant like poking it, dude, not stroking it,” Red says. “You wouldn’t really enjoy it right now. Maybe later.”

"Pass,” Sans says.

As he fumbles out of his shirt, Red raises his brows. "Not that I'm not digging the stoner striptease, but you could just pull your soul out without touching it."

"I dunno how." Sans freezes too abruptly, making the room shiver before it steadies again. "Wait, can everybody do that?"

"Uh, yeah," Red says. "How the hell do you think monsters with meat on their bones get their souls out, dipshit?"

Sans laughs. It's not funny, not really, but-- "So Asgore was a drama queen."

"You got no idea. Some of the executions he used to do..." Red shakes his head, trying to erase some memory like an etch-a-sketch. "Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Lemme guess, he pulled it out of his chest instead?"

"Really went digging around in there," Sans says. Laughs again, a brittle noise. "It was horrible."

"Good. Fucker didn’t deserve to die clean.”

“Don’t.” It’s halfway to a plea.

“Don't waste your pity on him, sweetheart,” Red says. “He got what was coming to him. I’m just sorry I didn’t get to watch."

"Great. I'm so glad we get to decide who deserves to live," Sans says. "Hey, while I’m playing judge and executioner, how about I deal with the kid next? I mean, they've got him beat on sheer numbers."

Red scoffs. "He was the one playing executioner. You think he would've shown you mercy? You think he'd have felt one tiny shred of guilt if he'd killed you instead?"

Memory stabs at Sans from the dark, the expression on Asgore’s face just before he died. He looks away, down at his empty hands. "He, uh. He felt guilty. At the end."

Red is silent for a long moment. When he speaks, there's no mercy in it. "Yeah? So fucking what? The people he killed are still dead. I still got cracks in my ribs where he made my bro torture me. Guilt doesn't change a goddamn thing. His guilt, or yours, or mine. He died. You didn’t. If you feel bad about it, then live twice as hard."

Sans drags in a shaky breath, then coughs a little from the lingering smoke he just inhaled. "Oh, is that all."

"Yep. That's all. Survive so you can maybe drop some philosophy on your stoned fuckbuddy when he's having a stupid ethical crisis." Red jostles Sans's knee with his own. "Now poke your soul. My bro's gonna get home at some point, y'know. Gotta get this shit on the road."

And now apparently Red's done giving him mildly horrifying life hacks on how to deal with being a murderer.

Sans sighs and sticks his hand under his ribs, craning his head so he can see what he's doing. Warily, he nudges his soul with a fingertip. It's uncomfortable. Not agonizing, though. He'd rather be uncomfortable and semi-coherent than completely useless. He extricates his hand. "I’m good. I can't believe you do that for fun."

"You can't get off just fucking poking it," Red says, exasperated. "Is that how you rub off? Fuck's sake. You gotta have a little finesse."

"I was a little busy trying not to black out to fool around."

"Mine didn’t hurt. But then again, I didn't let my soul scar over for-- how many years was it, exactly?"

"Nope," Sans says mildly.

"Nope years.”

"Yep."

“Welp, you made up for mine not hurting by being an enormous pain in my ass." Then a dangerous light comes into Red's eyes. "You want me to show you?"

"Your ass?" Sans asks. "I’m sure it’s great.”

"It’s fantastic," Red says. "You can have it anytime you want. I mean do you want me to touch my soul for you? You can see what all the fuss is about.”

Well, Sans can’t exactly say he’s surprised by Red’s priorities. "You said Edge is gonna get home anytime now. You want him to walk in on you getting off in the living room?"

“Wouldn’t be the first time," Red says.

Like a flashbulb illuminating his subconscious, Sans gets a sudden and unwelcome mental image: him and Edge sitting on the couch, watching Red touch himself. Not touching each other, just... sharing him.

Wow. He should've stopped smoking a while ago because he doesn't know where that came from but _what the fuck_.

Sans shakes his head. His voice sounds funny. "No, I, uh, I believe you."

"Heh.” Red grins like a bear trap. “I get it. You worried it’ll get you hot and he'll see it when he gets up on your soul."

Well, not until now, he wasn't. Sans stands up, wobbling a little. "I need water. Dry mouth."

Red catches him by the spine and pulls him back down. "Funny as it'd be to watch you try to walk a straight line, lemme get it."

There goes Sans's plan to splash cold water on his face to try to clear his head. He watches as Red sets the pipe down on a ashtray, disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a mug emblazoned with ‘scientific progress goes boink’. He’s pretty sure Red stole it from him.

Sans narrows his eyes, which is hilariously ineffective judging from Red's expression. "I can walk a straight line."

Red hands him the mug and pats his cheek. "You're adorable. Drink your water."

"Fuck you," Sans says. Then he drinks his water. It's the best water ever.

"If it helps, you’re locked up tighter than a bank vault. He can't see that deep," Red says. “Not unless he goes prying, which he won't because he's not a creeper, or you deliberately let him in, which you won't because you're a control freak. He might get a general impression and some flashes of memories without any context but that’s it."

"I'm pretty fucked up right now," Sans says.

"If you didn't let him in when you were about to kick it, I'm pretty sure a little weed ain't gonna do it," Red says. "Plus even if you leave the door wide open, he's not gonna poke around unless you've given him the okay. That'd be fucking rude."

That makes him feel a little better. Not better enough to enjoy some mutual masturbation right before Edge gets home, but better. He lays his head back on the couch. "I don't know how any of this works."

Red makes a derisive noise. "Our universe is pretty fucked--"

"Understatement."

"-- but at least we don't let people wander around being the kind of ignorant that might kill them. It's stupid."

"It's rare. I'm kind of a freak."

Red’s grin is sudden and mean. He leans closer, crowding Sans against the arm of the couch. His eyes fall to Sans's collarbone, the mark that's still lingering there. "Hell yeah, you are. Got a lot going on behind that big dumb grin of yours.”

Sans opens his mouth to say something careless, but Red touching the mark with the tips of his fingers completely derails him. He forgot how much keener weed makes every point of contact, how much _more_ it is.

“Y’know, you even had me fooled,” Red says. “Pretty impressive. I knew you were fucked up but I figured hey, how bad could it be? The resets, yeah, those sucked, but otherwise it was supposed to be all kittens and rainbows.”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Sans says. His voice comes out throaty. “False advertisement. We ran out of kittens a while ago. Give Edge five minutes and I’m sure he’ll find one.”

Lightly, Red presses down on the mark for a moment. It aches, a good kind of ache that goes straight to the base of his pelvis. Sans shivers. Red watches his face like a predator. “I underestimated you. I ain’t gonna make that mistake twice.”

There comes the sound of a key in the door. To Red’s credit, he immediately pulls back and lounges indolently at the opposite end of the couch. Sans yanks his shirt to his chest to cover his soul just before Edge steps through the doorway.

Edge takes them in, Sans half-naked and Red smirking like the cat that got the cream, and sighs. “Do you want me to come back in fifteen minutes?”

“Fifteen minutes my ass,” Red says, indignant. “I got _standards_.”

“We’re done,” Sans says. Then, like a reflex, he makes it worse. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Red cackles. Edge gives him the single raised brow, then steps inside and closes the door. “As you like. Give me a few minutes to get settled and then we can begin.”

A spike of something that’s nearly alarm penetrates through the weed haze. Sans says tightly, “Uh, yeah, okay.”

Edge puts his suitcase down, crosses the living room and is gone down the hallway to their bedrooms, leaving him and Red alone.

“Not what it looks like,” Red says. “Holy shit. What are you, a teenager whose mom just busted him jerking off?”

Sans is a little too high and a little too freaked out to come up with anything better than, “You comparing your brother-boyfriend to my nonexistent mom takes this to a real weird place.”

“Welp, keeping it in the family.” Red gets a good look at Sans’s face and doesn’t quite gentle but at least looks less gleefully mean. “Yeah, okay. You still good for this?”

“I don’t really have a choice.”

“Bullshit,” Red says, sharp as a gavel coming down. His eyelights are very clear. “If you wanna stop, we’ll try again later or figure something else out. Do you wanna stop?”

And the funny thing is that Sans doesn’t doubt for a second that they would accept that. It’d be an enormous pain in the ass, a waste of time when Sans needs this done sooner than later, but if he hit the brakes, they’d respect it. No guilt trips, no bullshit.

“No,” Sans says, surprising himself with his honesty.

“Good,” Red says. “Now put your shirt back on.”

“Why? He’s gotta get to my soul.”

“I can bring it out for you ‘til you figure out how to do it yourself,” Red says. “You don’t gotta sit here half-naked. Not that everybody doesn’t appreciate the view of all those pretty bones of yours.”

Because that reminder that Edge is warm for his form makes Sans feel much better.

With great relief, he pulls his shirt back on. He’s a little uncoordinated and it takes longer than it ought to, considering that he has about 3/4ths of a doctorate and should be able to figure out dressing himself. When he’s done, Red shifts so his spine is pressed against the arm of the sofa and pats the cushion in front of him. “Put your back to me.”

“Why?” Sans asks warily.

“So I can keep you from sliding off the couch.”

“I’m not gonna slide off the couch,” Sans says, uncomfortably aware of the fact that only Unundyne’s headboard had kept him upright the last time.

Red shrugs. “Suit yourself. I still gotta bring your soul out and Edge is gonna be sitting in front of you.”

“So we’re all going to be sitting sideways on the couch like assholes.”

“Pretty much.” Red grins. “Unless you wanna do this in a bed again? That’d be cozy.”

Sans winces. Then he moves to sit with his back to Red, who immediately snuggles in like a friendly octopus. Sans doesn’t know what else he expected. But it brings him some perverse comfort to have Red pressed against him when Edge returns and sits on the couch.

He trusts Edge. That’s why they’re doing this. But his soul still beats faster. It’s the difference between being forced into letting Edge touch his soul and actually asking for it. Now he’s caught between them again, the focus of their attention when he’s been trying like hell for months (years) to keep anybody from looking too close. 

Edge took off his jacket and gloves and changed into a worn black t-shirt and pants that aren’t even leather. Approachable. Sans doesn’t know if it’s supposed to put him at ease or if this is just a thing that Edge does when he’s at home after work. His forearms are as scarred as Red’s, scratched and cracked. Sans probably shouldn’t be staring at them but his weed-fogged brain is fixated on the intricate patterns that the scars make. They’re pretty. He doubts Edge would appreciate him calling them pretty.

“Are you comfortable?” Edge asks because he is a solicitous host.

Comfortable isn’t the word, but this is as relaxed as Sans can possibly get right now. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks. Uh, how was work?”

Red snorts and thumps his forehead down on Sans’s shoulder. Sans can feel him shaking with laughter. He has no fucking idea why he said that either, but it’s better than asking about the weather, probably.

“Fine,” Edge says, as if that was completely normal. “Do you need to do anything else before we start?”

“Heh. No, I’m good.” Sans cranes his head to glare at Red. “Are you gonna do the thing?”

“Yeah, gimme a minute, holy shit,” Red says, laughter still thick in his voice.

Something closes around Sans’s soul. It’s painless. It is like being turned blue, that sense of being enveloped with magic that’s not his own. He doesn’t have long enough to tense up before his soul’s being pushed forward, steady and strangely gentle, out of his chest until it’s hovering in front of him.

“Oh,” Sans says. “Weird.”

“Yeah,” Red says, amused. “You gonna grab it or am I just supposed to hold it for you all fucking day?”

Honestly, considering that it’s completely painless versus the uncomfortable muchness of Sans touching his soul even as high as he is right now, he’d rather Red just hold it all day. But letting Red hold his soul for him, that level of trust, might be crossing into ‘making it weird’ territory. So he snags his soul, trying not to wince because Edge is watching him like a hawk and won’t want to do this if he thinks it’ll be too painful.

“Wow,” Red says, his chin hooked over Sans’s shoulder so he can get a good view of the proceedings. “Without your ribs in the way, that looks even more fucked up.”

“Thanks,” Sans deadpans.

“What?” Red says. “Hey, I told you it’s pretty.”

Sans stares fixedly at the soul so he doesn’t have to see whatever expression is on Edge’s face right now. “Shut up, Red.”

With malicious pleasure, Red says, “What about you, boss? You think it’s pretty?”

“Shut up, brother,” Edge says. Red snickers. Then Edge’s hands curl around Sans’s, a protective barrier between Sans’s soul and the world. In an entirely different tone than the one he used with Red, Edge asks, “Shall we start?”

“Sure,” Sans says easily, like they can’t all see him sweating.

This time Sans’s eyes are open when two of Edge’s fingertips come to rest on his soul, carefully placed where there aren’t any scars. Every touch to his soul is like the tactile equivalent of a loud burst of static, but he can take it for a little while. 

There’s that sense of Edge in his head again. It’s not quite the same, probably because expecting a person’s emotions to be exactly the same from one situation to another is like expecting a river not to flow and change as time passes. (Fuck, he’s stoned enough to get all poetic.) People are too complicated for that. The icy battlefield focus is gone, and the fear. Now that Sans isn’t about to kick it, now that they’re in Edge’s territory, Edge seems warmer. Not safe, never safe, but like having a knife in his hand and knowing the edge is pointed away from him. Edge won’t hurt him. But Sans already knew that.

Edge’s fingers get warm. With his eyes open this time, Sans can see the magic (red as marrow) being pushed directly into the scarred gray surface of his soul. Some of it is swallowed like water on parched ground. Some of it doesn’t sink in, skimming uselessly off like it hits some kind of resistance.

Sans knows Edge is trying to help him. He asked for this. He needs it. He tries to will himself to just chill the fuck out and let Edge do his thing. Magic still pours off of him, wasted effort, what the fuck is wrong with him--

“Hush,” Edge says absently. When Sans looks at his face, there’s no frustration, just patient concentration. “You’re fine. Give it a moment.”

“You heard the man. Cool your tits.” Red shifts, resettling Sans more comfortably against him. “Close your eyes. You’re freaking yourself out.”

Loath as Sans is to listen to Red, Red’s got more experience here. Sans closes his eyes. He can’t tell if that’s what helps or if it’s the reminder that Red is still there, something solid to ground himself on. He leans back into Red, letting his head drop onto Red’s shoulder.

“There you go,” Red says. It’s the same words, the same tone, he’s used in bed so many times when Sans gives him what he wants. Sans shoves that thought out of his brain like it burns, hopefully before Edge notices. “You want me to light the pipe again?”

Sans sure as hell feels Edge’s sheer indignation that Sans would smoke up while he’s riding shotgun like this. It really puts the Edge in straight-edge. 

Sans laughs. “No. S’okay.”

It’s hard to hold onto a good freakout when things make him laugh. Genuinely laugh, not a ‘laugh or I’ll go crazy’ laugh. When he relaxes a little, that sense of heaviness and warmth catches up to him. It’s gentler than last time; then again, last time Edge drowned him in magic until he didn’t know which end was up. But that feeling is building steadily as more and more of Edge’s magic sinks into him, weighing him down to the couch. As he breathes, heat trickles down his spine, slow as honey. With his eyes closed, the room feels like it’s slowly revolving, like he’s much more stoned than he actually is.

( _hiding in Alphys’s dorm room after another long day of Gaster trying to fuck with his head, hitting the pipe twice as hard as she is, sitting under a quilt with her watching some allegorical magical girl anime and trying to calm down so he won’t be seething when he goes home to Papyrus, hating Gaster, hating himself_ )

Soul touching + weed = fucked up, apparently. Unless he’s suddenly become hyper-aware of the rotation of the Earth.

( _but like hell is Gaster taking physics from him on top of everything else, he’ll survive a thousand years of Gaster’s barbed comments about Papyrus for every moment when things click and the universe made a little more sense_ )

Red’s voice in his ear: “You want me to talk to you?”

“I never want you to talk to me,” Sans says. The words are fuzzy on the edges. 

A spark of fond amusement from Edge, both intimate and alien, as Red says, “Harsh, sweetheart. That’s fine. You just chill and let him fix you up.”

He’s chill. The most chill. Besides, this isn’t so bad. Now he kind of gets what Red meant when he described this as relaxing. There’s the occasional twinge from his soul, a reminder that it’s basically a half-healed wound, but it’s nothing like the pain of the last several days. He’s warm and comfortable and--

Safe. 

It’s that same feeling as the collar, except this time Edge is pouring that intent straight into him like his bones can hold it. He feels some kind of way about that and he could figure out how if he concentrates, but he’s so fucking sick of feeling things that he’s not gonna examine it. This is nice for a change. Not to overthink.

( _that first trip to the beach with the human, laying in the sun, letting it soak into him as he watches Undyne dunk his brother, until his mind stops its endless ticking and goes quiet_ )

He can feel the rise and fall of Red’s breathing. He can feel Edge’s fingers steady on him, Edge’s careful, unobtrusive presence in his head. He loses time again. After a while, he feels more than hears the purr in his own throat, and with a few false starts like an old engine trying to catch, Red purrs back. Sans doesn’t think that contentedness, that sense of all things in their place, is completely his own.

The moment breaks. With a complaining noise, Sans blinks his eyes open, trying to figure out what the hell, and finds that Edge’s stopped touching his soul. It lays there in their hands, burning a bright white that’s tinted very, very slightly pink. Something about that seems a little lewd. Edge looks tired and bemused but not unpleased with his work, which is good because Sans feels fucking amazing. It’s like sunlight got transfused straight into his marrow and is thrumming through him, like he’s glowing from the inside. All that tiredness, all that pain, just taken off his shoulders and set aside.

Red takes him by the chin, making him turn his head, examining his expression. Whatever he sees makes him look deeply smug, which is kind of Red’s default so it doesn’t mean much. “Hey, lightweight. How you doing?”

“So’s your face,” Sans says, the thick purr in his voice taking away some of the impact.

Red gives a quiet snerk, then glances at Edge. His voice is rough. “Goddamn, boss.”

“Don’t,” Edge says. “I wasn’t trying to. He just--”

“Yeah, I know.” For Red, that’s almost gentle. “You overdid it. You look like shit. Eat something.”

“Who am I to refuse your orders?” Edge says dryly.

It seems vaguely important to contribute to the conversation even if Red is still holding onto his face. Sans says, “He’s kinda bossy.”

“Very,” Edge agrees. He gives Sans’s hands a last gentle press and then takes his hands away. Amazingly, Sans manages not to drop his soul on the floor. He doesn’t want to think about trying to get carpet lint off his soul, especially since it’s kind of wet now.

“Fuck you guys.” Red nuzzles Sans’s mouth, a brief almost-kiss. When Sans leans back into him for more because hey, kissing is great, Red turns his face away. Rude. He lets Sans’s chin go with an unsteady laugh. “Shit. Okay, let’s not do anything you’ll regret. I’m gonna put your soul back if that’s cool with you.”

Sans shrugs. A moment later, Red’s magic closes gently around him again and lifts the soul out of his hands, putting it back behind his ribs where it belongs. Sans wipes his slick palms off on his shorts. He hopes his soul’s not bleeding or something, although Edge doesn’t look worried, watching them indulgently as he takes precise bites of the generic food bar.

Red rubs his cheek against Sans’s shoulder like a big cat. He’s still purring away, a vibration Sans can feel in his ribcage and against his spine. It’s kind of nice, concrete proof that Red is happy. Not smug or amused or whatever else, but genuinely happy. He’s an asshole but Sans wants him to be happy. He reaches down to pet Red’s leg through his shorts, tracing the outline of the cracks in his femur. 

Red asks, “You hurting?”

Sans shakes his head. Pain is an abstract concept that belongs to someone else. He could sleep right here. The only thing is-- “M’kinda hungry.”

He’s starving, actually. The munchies from hell.

“What, no casseroles?” Red asks. “Decided you like our food better?”

“Maybe,” Sans says.

The volume of Red’s purring kicks up a notch.

Edge clears his throat, giving Red a Look over Sans’s shoulder as he reaches into his inventory. Amazingly, what he comes up with isn’t an utilitarian food bar. It’s a cinnamon bunny. Sans holds out a hand for it but Edge places it on the couch between them instead, carefully not making eye contact.

“For fuck’s sake,” Red says. “This is the stupidest bullshit. He already took food from you--”

“Not right now,” Edge says sharply.

Red’s got a point, but Sans would have to be much more high to actually say so. He eats the bunny. That gnawing hunger subsides a little. So does the warm haze wrapped around his brain, just like last time.

Sans takes in this whole tableau, Red’s smugness and Edge saying he didn’t intend for this to happen, him lounging on Red’s lap and purring like a motor in front of Edge, the lingering soft focus lens over his thoughts. Then he covers his eyes with a hand and groans. “It happened again.”

“Yeah,” Red says, dragging the word out. “Still kinda happening, buddy.”

“Fuck.” Sans sits up. Red lets him but holds onto his shirt to keep him from going any farther. Some part of Sans is telling him to bolt. But he’s not okay with Edge being out of his sight five minutes after Edge was in his head and he’s not okay with that not okayness. “Sorry.”

“What the fuck,” Red says.

Edge rests his hand on Sans’s shoulder and just kind of awkwardly pats him, which is hilarious. “As I said before, you have nothing to apologize for. I was trying to be careful but apparently it wasn’t enough. I’m--”

“Both of you stop saying you’re sorry for stupid shit,” Red says impatiently. He pokes Sans in the side of the head. “You. It’s okay. Nobody minds. He likes it. Let him fuss.”

Edge opens his mouth to say something sharp to Red, glances at Sans and says instead, “I do not _fuss_.”

He very noticeably doesn’t deny that he likes it.

Red rolls his eyes and makes a jerking off motion. Then he settles back into the couch and holds his arm out. “C’mere, you fucking trainwreck. Park it for a couple minutes. I ain’t sending you home to your bro like this.”

Sans’s instinctive response is _you’re not the boss of me_ but even he can tell that’s a little childish. He sits there for a moment, fighting it out inside his head. He’s compromised right now, and he hates being seen like that; what he lets people see is the one thing he can control. But he doesn’t want to stumble back to Papyrus fuzzy-brained and reeking of weed. He’s freaked the poor guy out enough as it is.

(It feels good. He feels really good for the first time in days. Weeks, maybe.)

(And he still doesn’t want Edge out of his sight.)

Slowly, so Red doesn’t get the idea that he’s doing it because he was told to, he curls up under Red’s arm. Red scritches his head and it feels wonderful. Sans squinches his eyes shut and tries to force himself back together through sheer concentration. A few minutes. Just a few minutes and then he can call a cab, if Edge doesn’t insist on driving him home himself, which is unlikely.

That seems to be how a lot of his decisions are made lately. Just for tonight. Just a few minutes. Just because he has to. Amazing how much of his time he spends lying to himself.

(The collar is still in his inventory.)

Without pausing in his scritching, Red says, “Sit your ass down.”

Sans starts to point out that he’s already sitting down until he realizes Edge started to get up. There’s a very pointed silence from Edge’s side of the couch and Sans thinks there’s some glaring going on over his head. Cracking one eye open to look at Edge, he says as noncommittally as he can, which isn’t very, “I don’t mind if you don’t.”

It’s better than saying _please stay_.

Edge hesitates, then leans back into his seat. He’s tense, trying to leave space between them like he’s not touch-starved as hell. That distance aches. Sans shifts subtly over until his side presses against Edge’s. Edge stiffens and then relaxes, sinking into the touch. There. They can pretend any snuggling is purely coincidental because it’s a smallish couch with a Papyrus on it.

“TV?” Red asks.

“Sure,” Sans says. Handy way to tell the time. Thirty minutes, maybe an hour depending on how long this lasts without him sleeping it off, and then he’s gone.

The TV turns on low. Something on the Science Channel, naturally. Edge gives a sigh of resignation, incredibly familiar from years of living with Papyrus. After a minute, Sans hears the click of bone on a cell phone screen. At least Edge won’t be bored while he’s waiting this out. He’s probably texting Papyrus so he doesn’t worry. Edge is a good guy like that. Edge is the best.

“Thanks,” Sans says, eyes still closed.

The quiet clicking stops. The silence seems surprised. Then Edge says softly, “You’re welcome.”

Red adds, “Dumbass.”

There doesn’t seem to be anything else to say. Sans settles in between them. His nerves should be screaming, but they’re not. For the moment, it’s the most comfortable place in the world.

***

Edge is afraid to move.

Red and Sans are asleep. Profoundly so, a deeper sleep that Red usually manages. Sans's head still rests on Red's shoulder, an echo of the way he slept on Edge in a different universe. Red's hand is on Sans's arm, keeping him close. Edge hesitates to use the word 'adorable' to describe his brother even in the privacy of his own head, but looking at the two of them makes his soul feel overfull, which sits uneasily with the fact that he might die of frustrated arousal. 

Sans is still touching him, his spine torqued at an angle Edge would think painful but that doesn't seem to bother him. And Sans is _soft_ , a consequence of that same buffer of ambient, invisible magic that makes Red look stocky when he's dressed and shockingly small when he's not. Sans is plush, generous softness pressed against his hipbone and Edge is not the kind of bastard who would molest someone who's sleeping without prior consent but damned if his fingers don't itch to touch.

Which he is not going to do because Sans isn't his. Given the trauma of the last week, given the state of his soul, Sans needs to concentrate on healing for a while. Perhaps a long while. Edge made his desire clear. Sans can decide what to do with that information in his own time. Such are Edge's good intentions.

Never mind that Sans is being extremely unhelpful at the moment. His decision to move so he was touching both Edge and his brother, a conduit between them, was deliberately made. Most likely it’s because Edge said in that moment of weakness that he likes it when Sans touches him. But after months of Sans being careful to give him space like he’s a skittish animal, this is an embarrassment of riches he’s too grateful for to tell Sans to stop.

His crush (such an inadequate word) on Sans is his own problem, not Sans’s. He is not some fool who resents the person he wants for not returning his affection. And he does have Sans’s affection, clearly, just not in the exact way he wants it. Before they went to hell together, Edge doesn’t know if they would have even qualified as friends. It’s different now.

It also seems to be different between Red and Sans. It’s only been a week since Red lost his mind in a haze of fear and LV and turned on Sans, but tonight he was in control, making sure Sans was taken care of to his exacting standards, instructing Edge in how to do it properly. Things wouldn’t have gone so smoothly without him, although it’s strange to think of Red not introducing chaos into every given situation for his own amusement. Edge knows his brother. He can read in the possessive way Red curls his fingers around Sans’s arm to keep him close that Red cares, although he would probably stab anyone who implied as much.

Perhaps it should bother Edge that Red will demand cuddling from Sans and would lash out at Edge if he tried, but it’s softened by the fact that Red is letting _someone_ give him this even if it’s not Edge. That need is being provided for. His brother is being taken care of. And privately, Edge likes seeing them tangled together like kittens in a box too much to resent it. He’s trying to burn the image into his mind when he realizes Sans's eyes have opened and he's being watched in return.

Caught red-handed being inappropriate, like a vampire in some terrible romantic film, Edge clears his throat and looks politely away. “How are you feeling?”

Sans's eyelights are clear and sharp. "Better. Time izzit?"

"Nearly midnight." When Sans tenses, Edge adds, "I spoke to Papyrus. He knows where you are and that you're safe."

That makes Sans relax again. "Thanks. I oughta head home. He's probably waiting up."

 _Stay._ The word is on the tip of Edge's tongue. _Sleep in our bed. Let me feed you breakfast. Let me keep you._

When he can speak wisely, he says, "I'll drive you home."

Predictably, Sans protests, "I can get a cab."

"I don't doubt that you could," Edge says. "Regardless, you’d be doing me a favor if you let me drive you."

Sans considers him. "Careful, edgelord. I'll get spoiled with all this chauffeuring around."

"I can live with that." Better than knowing that Sans is riding on buses with strange humans, which Edge fully recognizes is ridiculous. Asgore paid for thinking Sans a sacrificial lamb with his life.

(Which only makes Edge want him more, because he has particular tastes in men, apparently.)

Edge rises from the couch, grimacing at the stiffness of sitting very carefully still for hours. When Sans starts to slide out from under Red's arm, being surprisingly careful not to disturb him, Red asks without opening his eyes, "You going?"

"Yeah," Sans says.

"Want me to give you a ride home?"

Edge wonders if Sans understands the subtext in that statement, that whatever might try to come for him in the void would have to deal with Red first. He would've said that Sans is too clever to miss any subtlety once, but he has considerable blind spots where Edge and Red caring about him is concerned.

"Nah," Sans says. "Edge is gonna drive me."

Sans starts to get up and Red opens his eyes, grinning like a gauntlet thrown. "No kiss goodbye? It’s not like he hasn’t seen us suck face before."

Sans glances at Edge, a little color in his face, perhaps remembering that he'd been all too happy to kiss Red in front of him a few hours ago. Then he leans in and gives Red's mouth a chaste kiss. Red rests one proprietary hand on the back of Sans's neck, looking quite pleased with himself.

Wisely, Sans steps back out of reach before Red can try to pull him back down for more. He bends to pick up the jacket discarded carelessly on the floor, the one Edge assumed was cast off by his brother.

"I don't suppose you'll go grab my hoodie so I can wear it home," Sans says.

Red widens his eyes. His faux innocence is always unnerving. "Laundry ain't done yet. You got a problem with my jacket?"

"Aside from the smell?" Sans asks, pulling the jacket on.

“Don’t talk too much shit, sweetheart,” Red says. “You smell like one of those old human movies about reefer madness.”

He does, and so will the living room and the inside of Edge’s car, unfortunately. A small price to pay for knowing he got home safely, and it’s not as unpleasant as some of the truly awful skunk weed Red had to settle for in their own universe. Edge will manage.

“Don’t do drugs and quantum physics, kids,” Sans intones gravely. “It’ll turn out your alternate self is an asshole.”

“A sexy asshole,” Red says. “Don’t forget that part.”

“Can’t no matter how hard I try.” Sans glances at Edge as if remembering that he’s there, derailed by bullshitting with Red. Edge doesn’t mind the free entertainment. Red makes Sans amusingly prickly. “Heh. You ready? You wanna put your fancy pants back on or something?”

“These pants are sufficiently fancy.” Edge grabs his keys off the table by the door. “I won’t be long, brother. Try not to burn the house down while I’m gone.”

“No promises,” Red says. There’s a light in his eyes that says Edge will come home to find him naked and willing in their bed, ready to work off the frustrated desire of the evening. Something to look forward to. “Catch you later, Sansy.”

Sans gives him a vague wave and lets Edge steer him out the door.

The night is cold, the end of summer carried in its breeze. The first fallen leaves blow around their feet. Edge doesn’t feel the chill but Sans huddles deeper into Red’s jacket, the fur bunching around his face. Edge unlocks the car doors for him quickly, puts the keys in and turns on the heater, and then starts to come around the car to open Sans’s door because he is a courteous driver.

“Dude,” Sans says, opening his own door. “Chill.”

“I am very--” Edge begins, and then stops to frown at him. “Was that a pun?”

Sans winks. “Did it leave you cold?”

On the one hand, that was fucking terrible. He’d almost prefer one of Red’s infinite number of dead baby jokes. On the other, Sans is joking with him. Edge makes a disgusted noise for tradition’s sake and gets behind the wheel. He waits until Sans gets into the car and closes the door before he sighs heavily and says, “That’s snow joke.”

Sans laughs, surprised. The sound makes Edge’s soul squeeze in his chest. “Wow, did that hurt? Are you okay? Did you break something?”

Edge tries not to smile and isn’t sure he succeeds. “Sadly, I think my sense of humor will never recover. The sacrifices I make for you.”

Sans grins at him, his eyes soft. “Yeah, well. I appreciate it, buddy. You’re turning into a real freeze spirit.”

“I will put you in the trunk.”

“The burden of being portable.” Sans lays his head back against the seat. “I’m done. Pinky swear.”

Edge manages to tear his eyes away from Sans’s bare throat. He wonders for a distracted moment what Sans did with the collar. Buried in a drawer, most likely. More’s the pity. Not that he has any right to an opinion on the matter.

At one point, he thought of himself as a cool and collected person. What a fool he was.

He puts the car in gear, pulls out into the street, and heads towards Sans and Papyrus’s house. Sans stares out the window, seemingly content to listen to Kesha sing about cannibalism. It reminds Edge of some of the folk songs they sang at Grillby’s in his universe, darkly humorous murder ballads and ghoulish stories set in rhyme. Perhaps someone has written a song about him and his brother, who were local nightmares even before Edge came back from the apparent dead to help upend the kingdom. That would amuse Red to no end.

Perhaps they’ve even written a song about the kingkiller.

“Was Red right?” Sans asks, suddenly breaking his silence.

When Edge glances at him, Sans’s gaze is fixed out the window. Edge turns the music down a little and asks, “About what?”

“That you liked it.”

Oh, that is a dangerous question, the kind he can only answer with the truth. “I did.”

“I gotta say I don’t see the appeal in it for you. Y’know. You help me and then I’m useless and fall asleep.”

“I’m not doing this so I can get some kind of use out of you,” Edge says, more sharply than he intends to.

“Whoa, hold on,” Sans says. “Dude, I know you’re not trying to--”

He stops. Of course he does. It’s too close to addressing the elephant in the room. When he speaks again, it’s more careful. “You’re not that kind of guy. I’m just saying I don’t get it.”

“It’s no small thing for you to let me help you.” To say the least. Sans’s resistance to asking for help nearly cost him his life. “And the fact that you put yourself in my hands and trusted me to take care of you when you’re vulnerable is... I enjoy it. Very much.”

“Huh.” There is a full sixty seconds of agonizing silence before Sans continues, “Makes sense.”

Edge glances at him, unsure whether to trust this sudden epiphany. “Does it?”

“Yeah,” Sans says, in the tone of someone who has absolutely no intention of clarifying his cryptic statement. After years of living with Red, Edge is very familiar with that tone. Sans probably won’t tear his head off like Red would if he pushes but there’ll still be no getting anything out of him aside from jokes.

Edge lets it go. “But my enjoyment has nothing to do with it. I didn’t intentionally put you in subspace either time, but I should have better control. I’m sorry.”

“Nah,” Sans says. “How many people have you done this with?”

“Only you and my brother,” Edge says. “I still should have--”

“And both times I was either dying or high as fuck,” Sans says. “Pretty weird circumstances. It’s not your fault I’m, uh, susceptible or whatever. I’m not mad. Cut yourself some slack, okay?”

Cutting himself slack is a foreign and dangerous concept. There was precious little room for mistakes in their universe. Edge flexes his grip on the steering wheel. “If you want to ask someone else for help, I understand.”

Sans glances over at him, his expression unbearably fond. “Nope. Sorry. Unless _you_ change your mind about this whole thing, you’re stuck with me.”

It’s a sign of faith in him that Edge in no way deserves. His soul feels warm. “I should warn you that you may feel poorly tomorrow. Body aches, fatigue, depression, tremors--”

“The whole drop thing, yeah,” Sans says. “I actually did some research this time. S’okay. I’ve felt lousy all week so it’s not gonna come as a huge shock. It’ll be worth it just to have had a couple hours’ break from feeling like shit.”

“Good,” Edge says. “I’ll check in with you at lunch tomorrow, obviously, but call me if you need anything or you want to talk before then.” 

Sans gives him a sidelong look, as if Edge worrying about his welfare after putting him in this position in the first place is some strange personal quirk, and shrugs. “Sure, if you want.”

The odds that Sans will reach out to him if he needs help are clearly slim. Edge can’t say he’s surprised. Hopefully the fact that Sans didn’t experience sub drop in more dire circumstances means that he’ll be all right. Red very rarely has sub drop. Maybe it’s a universal constant.

They settle into a not-uncomfortable silence. Then, like a fool, Edge says, “And you?”

“And me what?”

Now would be a good time to stop digging. Edge keeps talking anyway. “Did you enjoy it?”

Sans opens his mouth. Shuts it. The inside of the car is dark and Edge is distracted by driving but he thinks Sans is flustered. “I dunno. It’s, uh. I’m…”

Shaking his head, Edge says, “That was an unfair question. I apologize.”

“It didn’t suck. Kinda relaxing. Hey, there’s my house,” Sans says. Said house is still a few blocks away, only visible by virtue of the perpetual Gyftmas lights. “Y’know, I’ll just get out here.”

From years of dealing with Red, Edge knows how to interpret _it didn’t suck._ Sans liked it and isn’t sure how to deal with that information. The satisfaction that wells up in Edge is sudden and vicious and completely inappropriate.

Smothering it, Edge asks, “Shall we drop the subject so you don’t try to fling yourself from a moving car?”

“That’d be great,” Sans says with relief. “So. Weather, huh?”

It’s a good thing Red isn’t here or he’d be laughing himself sick. Edge nods and tries to remember the meaningless small talk the humans inflict on him. “It’s certainly colder?”

“Yep,” Sans agrees. “Gotta knit the kid a sweater or something.”

“Knitting a sweater for a child that’s still growing like a weed is a fool’s errand,” Edge says. Honestly. Sans has no common sense sometimes. “I’m making them a scarf.”

“Well, all the cool kids are wearing one these days.”

It takes Edge a second to recognize another temperature pun. He gives Sans a look of disapproval. Sans grins back, thoroughly unrepentant for his crimes against language.

Edge pulls up to the curb in front of Sans and Papyrus’s house and puts the car into park. “Do you want me to walk you in?”

The neighbors are gone, their belongings helpfully packed and removed for them by human and monster authorities. The adult male human (Edge refuses to call him a father) is going to jail awaiting trial for abuse and for his connection with several monster disappearances. The child is going to foster care, Edge is given to understand. Toriel may not call herself queen but she’s not afraid to use her unofficial authority when it comes to the welfare of children. But the fact that he rationally knows the threat that was so close to Papyrus and Sans’s home is gone does not mean he can quiet his instincts.

The look Sans gives him is downright indulgent. It says very clearly, _don’t test your luck._ Then he unbuckles his seatbelt and climbs out of the car. Once he’s standing, he stretches. He looks sated, like a well-fed creature. It’s a good look on him.

“You wanna do this again next week?” Sans asks. “Is that too soon, or--?”

“No, that’s perfectly reasonable,” Edge says. It’s something of a relief that Sans is taking this seriously and won’t force Edge to repeatedly nudge him, which puts him one up on Red.

“Cool,” Sans says. “Guess it’s a date.”

He closes the car door, takes a few steps towards the house, and pauses for a second. His expression would be inscrutable for most people but Edge is fairly certain he just realized what he said and is trying not to wince. Then Sans gives a wave over his shoulder and makes for the house. As quick as a shortcut, he’s gone.

Edge stifles a private smile. Then he puts the car in gear and starts home.

**Author's Note:**

> content warnings: weed smoking, references to UF!Asgore's death and how much Underfell sucked, soul touching under the influence, Edge accidentally putting Sans in subspace again
> 
> Credit for the headcanon of Underfell being big on murder ballads and The Decemberists-esque horrifying drinking songs goes to Lady_Kit.


End file.
